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Cold and Confrontation
Muralis » Zone III » Cold and Confrontation http://www.muralis.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=gz3&action=display&thread=101 ---- Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 10, 2011, 3:20am The cold was not good for Henry Foster's leg. That, at least, was what he insisted on telling himself. It could have also been that other things in the far north were accelerating his... illness, but that was useless to worry about. The trip to the Lucretzia compound had been singularly uncomfortable, regardless, and now that he was inside (after knocking for god knows how long), he was in no mood to tolerate others, and mostly interested in getting out of the weather. "We've had a surprising influx of guests today, Mister..." "Foster," the scientist grunted. "My visit may be overnight. I'll need access to some materials, but I'm sure you have room for one more in your laboratories." Even Durantians thought of the wastes of the Ghalean mountains as haunted and strange, but Foster had only ventured so far because of the recent papers published by the compound. Strides were being made in certain areas that would be of great interest to his research. The use of Forms to give medicines an affinity for certain types of tissue could be vital to his theory. "I've been corresponding with Drs. Maurice and Vesper." He took a stiff and painful step towards one of the few tall buildings, probably a library, with every intention of defrosting happily there. "Oh! Blended biotransport, then? Fascinating! I'm a more practical man, myself, I'm afraid. But I do know Dr. Maurice! The man was supposed to be meeting me in Hall G today, but he never appeared... I suppose that means he's been making progress!" "Yes, yes..." Foster tried not to sound sarcastic. He leaned heavily on his cane as he made his ungainly progress to the library. "Heavens, Doctor Foster! Have you been injured?" The scientist's hand tightened on his cane. For the love of... The man had every intention of following him. "No. It's an old issue, never properly healed." He pushed through the door into the library, taking a small delight in dropping the heavy thing back onto the unnamed bother behind him. "You see, that's actually something of a specialty of mine... Reconstructive surgeries can do wonders these days. There have been some experimental surgeries recently with blended techniques that have returned a great deal of mobility. Have you spoken with a specialist? What was the cause of the--" "There was an accident. It may not be my specialty, but I'm doing fine." "Is the extent of the damage so--" Then the damned leech crossed the line, as it had rarely ever been crossed before, and reached out, as Foster stopped in the warm lobby of library, to tweak up his pant leg. Only a tiny gap of skin was opened between trouser cuff and wool sock, but what showed was so grayed that it had a greenish cast. The texture was nearly scaled, the circumference of the ankle clearly grotesquely thin, and the doctor's mouth opened wider to make a pointless, shocked observation. Henry Foster did not give him time. The sound the ebony cane made as it struck the man's skull was solid. The next blow yielded a sickening crunch-- there went the intrusive man's pointed nose. The third, fourth, and fifth were swung two-handed and struck the unfortunate's barrel-like body. At this point, the man was on the floor, solidly unconscious, nose bleeding heavily, and Henry Foster was standing over him, cane still poised to strike, chest heaving, eyes full of fury. His forelock had escaped its gelled obedience and fallen forward, adding to the strange madness in his face. Slowly, it drained away. He lowered the cane, pushing his hair back into place, though it fell in front of his eye again immediately. His crippled leg was shooting firey pains up through his body, and some of the draining fury converted suddenly to a flash of fear. It was getting worse. He stepped over the body of the doctor without looking at him and moved sluggishly towards a table. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Oct 12, 2011, 6:11pm "You can't very well expect to march about, indulging in every violent caprice that floats into your queer little brain, boy. There are laws..." A dry voice, tinged with the mustiness of ill-lit libraries and books with no more secrets to share, echoed beyond a door in the library's rear, nestled between an archway of shelves. "Laws? What use have I for laws? Who will enforce them?" The retort was delivered in the sharp, cold timbre of Sinclaire Thames, an edge of exasperation evident in his drawl. "Silly woman, don't act as if you have any intention of imprisoning me." "And if I did?" "You would be hard pressed to follow through." "You leave me little choice..." "Reconsider. You know I don't like games when my head throbs, and we both are well aware that my position cannot possibly be filled at this juncture." "Be that as it may," replied the woman tersely, "it would be much better for everyone if you developed a touch of self control." Evidently, no reply was necessitated as the door swung open, colliding jarringly with the nearest shelf and bringing upon Sinclaire's head a rain of thick leather volumes. Loosing a growl that scattered small animals miles around, Thames nevertheless knelt to gather the fallen tomes into a neat stack. With a mumbled apology to the towering woman behind him, a matronly figure garbed in white robes, he strode purposefully across the domed chamber in a clear effort to regain some semblance of dignity. Thames managed even a smirk as he fingered the sheaf of papers tucked loosely into the bag at his waist, none other than the identification documents of one Doctor Maurice. They would surely come in handy at some point. Ordinarily, Sinclaire would have settled into a shaded spot between seldom-browsed shelves, perhaps napping if no reading material immediately presented itself as worthy. As he considered doing so, gazing lazily in no particular direction, the plated toe of his foot collided with something... squishy. If he was not mistaken, it twitched slightly in response. "Eh...?" he muttered, stepping again with greater force as if to spite the unidentified obstruction. Looking down would have been the most efficient method of identifying the enigmatic mass, but Sinclaire was rarely interested in efficiency. Again he stomped, this time receiving a pained grunt in response. At last he hazarded a glance, barking a high laugh as the thoroughly manhandled professor came into view. "How wretched. Move," he commanded, kicking the man yet again. The man seemed intent upon satisfying Sinclaire through the swiftest egress, yet this proved impossible for his battered frame. Realizing this, Sinclaire knelt with deliberate steadiness, placing his lips very close to the man's ear. Something was whispered which, for the rest of their lives, neither would consider sharing, although for very different reasons. Body reinvigorated by the fatal murmur, the professor clambered to a quadrupedal position of mobility, vaguely resembling one of the plains hounds of Godrin, and dragged himself far from the ebon-clad wanderer's path. With a grin of triumph, Sinclaire glanced about, eyes falling upon Foster and, more importantly, his cane. He then caught the tall woman's eye, a ghastly grin upon his face. "What were you saying, Kehler? 'You can't very well expect to march about, indulging in every violent caprice that floats into your queer little brain...'? It seems to be the fashion as of late, though." Something pertaining to being far too old for such nonsense played about the woman's lips as she retreated into her chambers, slamming the door behind her in frustration. "Laws indeed," Sinclaire chortled, eying Foster curiously. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 12, 2011, 6:50pm Foster did not enjoy losing his temper. He also did not enjoy witnesses to his losses of composure, and this clearly affluent, blatantly arrogant young gentleman was no exception. "I'm afraid he committed an unforgivable offense," the scientist offered coldly, meeting the younger's eyes. What a self-important boy... He slid off the Archduke's ring and offered a look at the seal. That was one nice thing about being a personal envoy of the Durantian government-- he would probably be excused most offenses on some sort of diplomatic immunity. "I'm here to meet a Doctor Maurice and a Doctor Vesper, in blended biotransport, and I need laboratory space and a room for the night. I don't suppose you're a scientist?" Foster's tone was dubious. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Oct 12, 2011, 7:07pm Maurice... was he actually useful for something? Fancy that, pondered Thames, formidable mind racing through possibilities. Violent men with blunt implements rarely enjoy being informed that their extended trip to a frozen hell is without value, one of the reasons for said visit having been fashioned into a handsome - in the estimation of the modernist school of art - desk. Accordingly, Sinclaire improvised. "I'm afraid that Maurice, unfortunate to the last, was consumed by wolves. En route to this location I made the distinct tactical error of stumbling into their den, by which of course I mean the ice covering their cave proved insufficient to support my weight. Having dispatched the fanged horrors, I was appalled to discover a collection of meat caches. Like any man of great curiosity and testicular fortitude, I did not hesitate to peruse the remains with great attention to detail. All that was worth recovering, it seems, was this bundle of papers, the satchel of Monsieur Maurice had been cast aside during his dismemberment. I would know nothing of him if not for the nigh-unbelievably convenient nature of said documents." So saying, Thames proffered the identity forms of Maurice, adopting a look of moderately detached yet socially appropriate bereavement. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 12, 2011, 8:21pm Foster eyed him, then accepted the papers. "And I suppose his death was natural and hardly attributable to some... what, 'strange, violent caprice that floated into your queer little brain'?" he inquired sarcastically, unamused. "Dr. Maurice was cripplingly agoraphobic. He refused to leave the compound, which is half the reason I was forced to come here to examine his research." A pause. "Well, it hardly matters, so long as the wolves did not have their way with his experimental results. But rooms, I need somewhere to sleep and laboratory space, quickly. My cat is going to freeze outside with my luggage, and my health requires constant maintenance. Can you help me or can't you?" ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Oct 24, 2011, 7:17pm "Agoraphobia?" spat Thames, a glimmer of revulsion passing over his face. "What sort of nonsensical, counterproductive condition is that? A scientist afraid of his doorstep is unlikely to create anything capable of changing what lies beyond that dreaded threshold." Flippantly tapping his foot in what may have been a halfhearted mockery of a dance, he glanced at the moaning gentleman in the corner. "Wolves are rarely so cavalier as to damage one's papers in an act of violence, mister... doctor..." Realizing that he had not caught the name of the ill-tempered invalid, Sinclaire cast about haphazardly for an appropriate appellation. Stumpy would be far too incendiary, taking into consideration that imposing stranger's temper. So, too, would he have to refrain from employing his array of Durantian matron names. Catching the light refracting off of a lone speck of glitter upon the man's cheek, Thames casually continued, inspiration having at last struck. "...Doctor Sunshine. As I was saying, I am all but certain that your dearly departed colleague's belongings are perfectly in order in his chambers. Shall we have a look? No doubt our friend will be all too eager to rise from his snooze to fetch the Vesper person, supposing you are willing to flash that fancy ring in his general direction." The signet ring had not, as it may have seemed, been lost on Sinclaire. The mere sight of the thing both excited and terrified him; to a man who values freedom above all else, nothing is quite so sobering as evidence of a power capable of annihilating one's own on a whim. Sinclaire respected the Archduke deeply, it was true... but were an opportunity to remove such a force from his world to appear, Thames would not hesitate to seize upon it hungrily. Or so he told himself. As such a happening was inconceivable, he did not lose much time in pondering. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 26, 2011, 1:39pm The doctor eyed him with unconcealed distaste. "Of course." He limped over to the semiconscious doctor on the floor and nudged him with a toe. "I am an envoy from the Archduke of Durant, and I need Doctor Vesper. Also, somewhere warm to sleep. Are you going to be of some sort of use?" He tried to remain as coldly distant as possible, hating that the man had seen even a glimpse of his warped deformity. The unfortunate trembled and stirred dizzily to a more bipedal position. "You have a concussion," Foster observed, dispassionately. "Move slowly or you'll fall. I'm bringing my cat into the library until you give me somewhere else to put it." The poor doctor set sail unsteadily for the uncharted waters of the director's office, seemingly buffeted by small breezes on the way. Foster turned back to his new companion. "Henry Foster," he offered, with a grudgingly proffered handshake. "Come on, boy, we need find Maurice's office. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Oct 26, 2011, 2:02pm The rigidity with which the queer doctor conducted himself had the dual effect of amusing and unsettling Thames, who had not entirely expected his advice to be followed relating to the rousing of the injured man. Sinclaire could only assume that he was dealing with one of two things: a bureaucrat or a sociopath. Then again, he mused, the former was necessarily the latter in most cases. Chuckling at his own caustic wit, he accepted Foster's hand delicately, thankful for the leather gloves forming a barrier between their flesh. Something about the man was simply... off, in such a way that direct contact was in now way desired by Thames. "That we do, mister Foster... to your great pleasure, I happen to be in possession of the requisite knowledge, furnished thus by... wolves, shall we say, as that seems to be the theme upon which I am basing my conversations today," stated Thames wryly. A squat gentleman with a handsome beard brushed past the pair as he shouldered his way through the library doors, heaving along Foster's belongings by the request of his addled associate. Taking little notice, Thames caught the door and set a path for the gloomy chambers of Maurice, expecting Foster to follow. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 26, 2011, 2:49pm "Wait!" Foster commanded the bearded fellow. "The brown bag, you idiot." His movements were still stiff, but he made his way quickly to cut the fellow off and open a latch on the front of the odd, flat-bottomed, hard-walled case. A massive tortoiseshell cat leaped down, cast an affronted look up at the short man, and strolled over to rub its head affectionately against Foster's functional leg. He ignored the man completely once his cat had been saved from unpleasant handling, and made an effort to walk quickly enough to rejoin the other, feline at his heels. "You aren't going to give me your name, boy?" he demanded, as he caught up. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Oct 26, 2011, 3:06pm "Names, Doctor Sunshine, have little importance beyond their ability to alter one's disposition from the outset. You are at liberty to assign me whatever affectionate nickname you choose, though for the purpose of your internal records I might mention that the good people here know me as a Marchaise Neilst. It has a very Ghalean feel to it, no? Yes. The answer is yes," Thames, or rather Neilst, rambled without slackening his pace. "Oh look, you have a pet. How unexpectedly domestic, goodly Sunshine; I would have pegged you as more of a..." pausing to gaze intently at Foster, Sinclaire eventually continued, "...more of an ill-tempered dog person. An associate of mine once came into the possession of a Godrite war hound, liberated from its trainers after a drunken tavern skirmish. It was the most abysmal company, I tell you... the magnificent brute trampled my gladiolus patch, defecated in the roses, and had the audacity to cast an accusatory glance upon me, as if I''' compelled him in some way to select the thorniest patch to tend to his business." Having wholly forgotten the original topic of conversation, Thames contented himself with sulking over the memory of flowerbeds defiled as the apartment came into view. ---- '''Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 26, 2011, 4:41pm "How childish," Foster commented dryly, annoyed by the nickname and the reticence. He ignored the suggested name completely. The rambling grated on his nerves. "I like cats. They're independent and intelligent. Griffin wanders in and out of my lab as he pleases and has never disturbed one of my experiments... So I have a domestic cat, and you garden, boy?" He might as well have simply called the other a pansy, for all the tact in his tone. "You aren't a scientist. Why are you here?" ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Oct 27, 2011, 5:37pm "Not a scientist?!" Feigning the utmost umbrage, Sinclaire clasped a hand over his chest. "It's such an objective term, really... if you ask a psychologist if they are doing science, they will ardently answer in the affirmative. However, were you to pose the matter to any other scientist, they would laugh at you. Pseudoscience, they'd say. That being said, no, I am in no way a scientist. I am, however, an avid scholar. My business occasionally brings me to the medical convents, be it to consult individuals of great expertise or simply to browbeat the weak into sharing their supplies. It is difficult to get one's hands on certain reagents, and I've a responsibility to my peers... enough about that. My visit today is more focused, my good man... having misjudged the date of a proposed meeting, I find myself with a glut of time and intend to make a trip to the northernmost extremes of the continent in order to examine the glacial orrery. The researchers at Thieyons have been going on about it for some time... seems to be worth a trip. As I said, responsibility and such." By this point the party had reached the apartment of Doctor Maurice. The place was silent, which was no surprise to Thames. Rather than knocking, he simply burst through the door and unceremoniously threw himself down upon a utilitarian sofa. Wincing at the stiffness of the furnishing, something to which Thames was hardly accustomed, he assumed the most comfortable position possible in so spartan a room, placed a nearby book over his face, and began to snooze. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Oct 28, 2011, 1:24am Foster cast a disapproving glance at him again. Not only was that unbearably rude-- barging into the chambers of a dead man and throwing himself around-- but that level of childish arrogance, to imply that he was a murderer, a scholar, then to simply sprawl out in perfect comfort before the scientist, as if he could pose no threat. Griffin stilled suddenly to attention, feline eyes fixed curiously on a high shelf. The enormous cat leapt fluidly onto the napping young man's stomach, pushing off with fully extended claws to make the leap onto the shelf, where it settled calmly and overlooked the room. Its owner made a valiant effort not to laugh, managing a soft cough instead, and headed towards a filing cabinet that looked promising, leaning his cane against the wall and digging into the first drawer. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 4, 2011, 11:40pm "Contemptible beast..." growled Thames, rubbing the armored jerkin where Griffin had pounced. Yes, the garment had prevented any serious harm from occurring as a result of the unexpected assault, but the plates had pressed against his soft chest in a most unwelcome fashion and accordingly deserved his utmost hatred. In a fluid motion he grasped the book upon his face and prepared to hurtle it like a discus at the offending animal, only to glimpse Foster's cane and recall the potential damage such a tool could inflict upon his soft skull. Unwilling to worsen his headache he allowed the motion to continuing, the result being a complete twirl resembling an exceedingly awkward attempt at dancing. Back to Foster, he glowered venomously at the couch. "Your friend has a curious sense of propriety when dealing with a fellow gentleman." The tone employed would have been sufficient to induce cardiac arrest in lesser beings. Rumor suggested that it had done so on several occasions. Today, however, he did not expect much. Glancing about, he glowered at Foster. May as well be personable, he mused. "You say you're a scientist, Doctor Sunshine? What area holds your interest? Medicine, theoretical technologies, love, Murotian studies...?" ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 4, 2011, 11:57pm Foster looked up from the file and cast his cat an annoyed look. Griffin looked back understandingly. "I'm a researcher. Blended biotransport, but I also have an interest in Murotian technology. What is it that you do, then, boy?" He hoped with all his heart that the brat would make some sort of short, mysterious remark and then shut his damn mouth. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 5, 2011, 12:07am "You seem to have forgotten my occupation already, my esteemed sour apple. Scholar, do you recall? I doubt if you even remember my name... how pestiferous. No matter, people never notice the important things..." trailing off, Sinclaire took up a more dignified position in front of the door to Maurice's sleep chambers, leaning lightly against the door frame with an air of whimsical apathy. "The people at Thieyons are doing fascinating things with an old orrery to the north. Murotian technology, supposedly built upon their arrival in these lands. Fascinating, isn't it, that they were already studying the firmament in so personal a fashion when we still shiveringly looked to the stars as distant gods? So much to learn from our dear ancestors..." For reasons wholly beyond his comprehension, Thames felt the need to impress this strange, bitter man. "Of course, we at Murota University should very much like to gain a hold over the project, as we pride ourselves on our Murotian studies department..." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 5, 2011, 12:24am The scientist could barely hold back a groan of frustration. "Name? Oh, of course I remember-- Niels or something, wasn't it? But you're affiliated with Murota, are you? I actually have a--" Foster froze suddenly, eyes narrowing, and turned his attention fully to the strange young man. "Neilst. You said your name was Marchaise Neilst. Goddamnit, there's no way in hell you're the Dean of Murota! I don't believe it!" A few papers began to slide out of the file in his hand, edging their way towards freedom in Foster's distraction. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 5, 2011, 12:34am "Dean by proxy, my good man. It's not as if the position was particularly difficult to attain... my predecessor died, and I was the first to take the appropriate steps toward replacing him. Still, I do enjoy the perks, and I assure you that I take the role quite seriously from time to time. I do believe your name strikes a chord... yes, you have done some work for us, have you not? Studied there a bit before my time, I imagine... how funny, such a small world and all that..." Chuckling in his cold, high way, Sinclaire flashed a saccharine smile at his apparent peer. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 5, 2011, 12:50am "Well, I daresay your research grant is a bit outdone by my new employment." Foster looked distinctly sour. Something moderately pleasant in him had just curled up and died when the other smiled. "And I was under the impression that Neilst was a false name." It made sense, though, in a sick way. His presence at the compound, his arrogance... Foster resolved then and there to never treat him with any shred of respect. The little prat. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 5, 2011, 6:39pm "Ah yes. Your new employment." A hint of bitterness manifested itself in the narrowing of Sinclaire's hazel eyes. Of course the Archduke would act without consulting him, never mind that his position allowed a much more thorough view of potential candidates for any task. True, Foster would likely have been chosen regardless, being the most... devoted, that was a suitable word... but it would have really meant something for Saint-Just to have sent a polite letter. Decency, there was no blasted decency in this world anymore. Shame. "It is an enviable post to be sure, mon docteur, and holds the promise of great shenanigans. As it happens, I suspect our paths will remain concordant for a time. When last I spoke to His Majesty, he was deeply troubled by the growing magical disturbances... I feel as if I agreed to investigate them, but I do believe I forgot until... just now. Or perhaps I remembered a few moments ago when I mentioned the orrery, as that can't possibly have been a coincidence. Where was I going with that..." Violently rubbing his temples in genuine distress, Thames groaned in agony. Thrice-accursed migraine, scourge of his world, stumbling block on his road to supremacy... ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 5, 2011, 10:50pm "Of course we're here for the same thing... That bastard... Oh, for god's sake," he snapped at his apparent companion. "Just stop talking! I have a headache and my leg is-- is sore." He corrected himself quickly. 'My leg is spreading' was not a sensible phrase. He turned to the filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer, grabbing every file under W, then moved back up to take the M files, then the B's, keeping the one in his hand as well. "Let's go, Griffin. I need laboratory space. I don't suppose you know where Doctor Maurice worked, boy?" ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 7, 2011, 7:27pm "Oh yes, Doctor Sunshine has a headache and decorum falls to the wayside, heaven forbid anyone pat Sinc- pat Marchaise... upon the head. So it goes, and all that..." Moving lithely from his perch against the study door, Sinclaire moved in a direct path across the room, stepping from furnishing to furnishing in a decisive display of whimsy. Whimsy was dreadfully important to Sinclaire, being as it was the very lifeblood of freedom. So he believed, at the very least, which was really the only criteria necessary in constructing definitions so far as Sinclaire was concerned. "His work space? Presumably he worked with the rest of the nameless researchers. I haven't been here often, I admit; the place is hardly conveniently positioned. If it is at all similar to the Richelieu Compound, you will be served best by a long, low structure. These things take place underground, naturally... hiding their sins from god and the like..." chuckling at his little joke, he nudged aside the door. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 8, 2011, 2:23pm "Forgive me." The words dripped ice and loathing. "I don't deal well with the cold." Griffin watched the curious man with something that looked like feline distaste, as if his natural right to be the most willful creature in any room had been violated without permission. The cat leapt to the floor gracefully and stalked to the door in a huff. "So... he worked in a lab. Lovely, thank you." If any more sarcasm had been loaded into the words, they would have probably come out as a growl. "There are nine laboratory buildings in this place. His papers. Give me his papers. I need to know what number and hall his space was in." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 8, 2011, 3:05pm A flash of terror manifested in the scheming mind of Sinclaire. Were he to part with the papers, he would no longer be necessary in this man's affairs, and that would render him... well, it would render him less important, and that just wouldn't do. Perusing his mental record of the papers in question, he arrived quickly at the information requested. "Lab Nine. Oh bugger it, Maurice, no wonder you ejaculated that particular location..." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 8, 2011, 3:39pm Foster raised an eyebrow, but didn't bother remarking. He thought they were pretending wolves killed Dr. Maurice... Apparently not. "Lovely." He stormed out into the snow again, limping past two long, unmarked buildings to another identical one. With automatic courtesy, he held the door for the obnoxious man following (and also for his cat), and then cursed himself silently for encouraging him. It was silent a moment when the door shut, but for the distant hum of large machinery. Stretched out before him was a long, white hall with other, identical halls branching off at even intervals. It was something like being inside a sterilized beehive, but much emptier. Foster relaxed at once. "What hall, boy? If you won't give me the papers, tell me what hall he's in." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 9, 2011, 2:55pm Few things in the world roused Sinclaire's ire quite so thoroughly as the architecture of the Ghalean scientists. Something in the soulless, monochrome labyrinth of halls and strictly utilitarian chambers drew from deep within the young man a value for the aesthetic and, more importantly, a feeling of nauseating oppression. There were no flowers here. There never would be. Migraine shifting from an omnipresent throbbing to an acute, endlessly repeating explosion between his eyes, Sinclaire flowed wordlessly to a hall vaguely identified by way of a ceiling-mounted marker as "H". "When one is seeking the appropriate hall, Doctor Sunshine, it is prudent to consider the following: what letter preempts all others in spelling the word in question? The answer is 'H'. One spells hall with an 'H'. Unless, of course, one is making use of the Kelsmic or Ghalean alphabets, in which case it begins with an "S". Curious indeed that the languages agree in this area, the cultures responsible for their composition being so vastly discordant." Suddenly aware that he had permitted his mask of inanity to slip, he quickly added, "Or am I thinking about the language spoken by trees. No no, hall begins with an "n" in tree-speak1." 1 ~ Tree-speak is, in fact, Welsh. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 9, 2011, 4:21pm "Linguistics," Foster muttered under his breath, as if it were some sort of curse. Hall H was nearly identical to the main hall. It branched off to the left and remained sterile and eerily plain. Every few yards on either side, there was a door. Some were the frosted glass of offices, with bizarre shadows moving about within as their occupants went about their days. The rest were as white as the walls, with thick glass windows inset and neat plaques next to them to explain the safety hazards within and just who spent the day inside the surreal zoo enclosures. Henry Foster scanned a few of the signs before recognizing Maurice's name, skimming the safety hazards with the casual distain of the experienced scientist, and turning the knob. He felt more comfortable as he plucked a white linen coat from the rack by the door and traded his winter coat for the light protection of laboratory wear. This was his domain. He whistled softly and tapped a section of metal countertop, and Griffin leapt up gracefully, curled his tail around his feet, and stilled completely in that way only cats can. Foster laid his former collaborator's files next to the feline, donned gloves from a labelled drawer, and opened the cabinet marked "ACIDS" to begin. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 11, 2011, 8:15pm Sinclaire's treasures loomed before him... the chemicals. The precious, precious chemicals. There would be no need for Celia after all. "This hall... may I expect to find similarly well-stocked cabinets in the other rooms? I ask purely in the spirit of curiosity, in case something may be applied at the university. Or I want to help myself to the nice things. Whichever is most agreeable to you." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 11, 2011, 8:28pm Foster jumped slightly, having momentarily forgotten the other man's presence, and the sudden tense made his leg cramp and spasm. He hissed and folded slightly in on himself, grabbing the limb just above the knee and forcing his fingers painfully into the muscle. A moment passed, then he relaxed again and took a deep breath. "That would depend on what research is being done in each one. What are you looking for?" ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 11, 2011, 9:32pm "Supposing one were embarking on a project whose end result is to be the creation of a facility intended to process latent magical energies in such a way as to enable unprecedented manipulations of said energies by way of the intentions of a single party, it would at some stage become necessary to acquire reagents capable of powering a variety of motors, to regulate temperatures, to convert elements... all manner of things, really. A theoretical scientist would have great difficulty getting his theoretical hands upon theoretical chemicals. The corporations provide much of the desideratum, to be sure. However, their materials are plain. Mass-produced. One would have need of more specialized materials. For instance, a chemical capable of breaking down all organic materials entering a space, or a compound blessed with the power of consistently cooling a basin." Realizing that yet again he had permitted his intelligence to surface unmasked, Sinclaire eagerly threw in a final "...some amphibians prefer flying, just to be spiteful..." before making a show of being deeply fascinated with the workings of a nearby clock. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 11, 2011, 10:17pm Foster raised his eyebrows and set down the beaker he'd been about to fill and a large bottle of something noxiously pink. "Something to sanitize and something with heat transfer properties? You want a sterilizer and a coolant?" He sighed. "This area should have more medical researchers. They'd have sterilizing chemicals, and I need some things from that sort of lab, myself... As for coolant..." He frowned a moment. "Check that storage space." He pointed across the lab to a small, closet-like adjoining room-- often where extra parts were kept for laboratory machines. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 14, 2011, 2:01pm "Very good... ideal, even. If you will excuse me, doctor Sunshine, I have a number of thieveries to carry out. If you require anything at all, now would be the ideal point at which to make a grocery list." Grinning in so bestial a way as to prevent any transmission of warmth whatsoever, Sinclaire made as if to exit the room. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 14, 2011, 8:36pm "Laudanum," Foster ordered. "Morphine. Wormwood. Antiseptic. Anything involving vitamin E. Unactivated virus samples. GodDAMN you, boy, I needed Maurice for this... I can't make the alchemical changes... Ah, any sort of mutated samples. Magically induced mutation." He didn't stop working as he spoke, voice brisk and mechanical and more in control than it had been since he arrived. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Nov 15, 2011, 11:04pm "Magically induced mutation... how very versatile..." mumbled Sinclaire, drifting into the hall like a cloud from before the sun on an otherwise tolerable day. Alternatively, one could consider this departure to be the obscuring of the sun by a platoon of clouds, supposing one's opinion of sunlight is less than welcoming. Quite immaterial, suffice it to say that the removal of Sinclaire Thames from a room is bound to be received with pleasure. From laboratory to laboratory he flowed, gleaming eyes falling upon more than their usual bounty of chemical treasures. Special delight was taken in the procurement of laudanum, a fair portion of which was pocketed without any intention of donation to Foster. The other supplies proved simple enough to acquire, the locks employed by the men of science less than a challenge before the alchemist's art. The samples, on the contrary, were by no means abundant. What few he could secure were in no way altered, save one peculiar, seemingly irradiated specimen. Unwilling to accept any species of defeat Thames pocketed every last virus upon which he could set his slender hands, returning to Foster with a light smile playing across his lips. Spreading his findings across a table not currently in use by his colleague, he twirled a vial of antiseptic absently whilst awaiting acknowledgment. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Nov 15, 2011, 11:25pm Foster finished what he was doing before turning any fragment of his attention to the intrusive young man. "Did you get it all? The wormwood, morphine, and laudanum I need now. The others..." He paused to think, and then slammed a fist into the counter, making the glassware rattle. "Damn," he snapped, "There's no way without an alchemist..." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Dec 7, 2011, 1:31pm "Everything, master, yes," sang Thames, grinning obsequiously as he flitted about the workspace. As Foster's fist struck the counter he mimicked the gesture compulsively, shattering an alembic. "Indeed, an alchemist!" Sinclaire was evidently taking great pleasure in echoing Foster's sentiments, for he seemed wholly unaffected by the myriad shards embedded in his hand. "Wherever does one find an alchemist these days? Ah, but wait, glory upon glories, I'' am an alchemist!" In demonstration, Thames once more drove his hand into the ruined distiller, a simple circle of glowing runes flaring to life as the alembic returned to its former shape. "Convenient that I broke the thing, no? Almost as if it was planned." ---- '''Re: Cold and Confrontation' Post by shahmat on Dec 11, 2011, 8:26pm The sound of shattering glass made Foster flinch, but when he watched the glassware reassemble, he did not seem relieved. "You." The prospect was, without a doubt, the worst possible. "Aha." This, in Henry Foster-speak, meant, 'I'm supposed to rely on a childish, mentally incompetent sociopath? I'd rather stab myself in the throat.' "Well. I don't have a choice, do I." He pointed to his files, by the cat. "Blended biotransport. There's a set of papers titled "Targeting Mutated Cells to Eliminate Cancerous Growths. Make those changes to an unaltered, unactivated virus sample, but replace Part C with Appendix B." He moved brusquely to seize the wormwood and painkillers and continued his own project, finishing up and pouring a thin, murky greenish fluid into a series of twelve tiny bottles. He corked each and then raided the cabinet by the coat rack for a medicine case to contain them. The last remaining fluid in the flask he sipped at and grimaced, but swallowed. "Headache remedy," he offered aloud, suspecting that his painkiller blend would otherwise be subjected to his companion's curiosity. "Are you finished yet?" ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Dec 11, 2011, 11:56pm The described procedure, vague as it was in Foster's curt commands, proved less troublesome than Sinclaire might have hoped. Had it been an exceptionally complicated matter he could have justified misplacing a descriptor, perhaps turning the samples into something roughly the size of a bear for everyone's amusement. Something hulking and silly. Deciding against such a route, he instead followed the instructions to the letter, observing his colleague's activities out of the corner of his eye. The mixture was curious, not at all one with which he had any experience, theoretical or practical. He was, however, quite certain that it was no mere headache remedy. After all, few were better versed in the subject of headaches than Sinclaire Thames. "Yes, yes, quite finished," murmured Thames, placing the activated samples before Foster. "Have at 'em." The impulse to do something wrong had been overwhelming, for such an action would undoubtedly have produced an interesting result with regards to Foster's continued researches. Had Thames the vaguest idea as to what that research entailed, he might have done so. Instead he had resolved to carry out the man's commands faithfully, if only to see where the curious fellow would take them on the manifold paths of science. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Yesterday at 2:00am Foster stared at the samples. He didn't trust the other, not in the least, but he also didn't have any way to test him, or to make sure the idiot had done what Foster had asked. "Damn," he breathed out. So many times he'd wished he had the magical ability to conduct his research without aid... But it he had that ability, he wouldn't NEED to conduct this damnable research. He would be whole and healthy and that bastard Maximilian Hilbert would already be dead and forgotten. He siphoned off an amount of the fluid and moved a small stand of beakers towards him. He'd prepared them and their saline solution earlier, and now he mixed the virus in carefully. He turned to the other man as if about to speak, but paused and just glared at him with dull mistrust instead. Henry Foster was not an inherently unpleasant man, but he was understandably uncharitable towards the idea of dying at this brat's whim. He opened the drawer nearest him and produced a small handful of metal syringes. One was carefully filled and examined critically, then set down as he shrugged off his lab coat. "Hold this." He shoved it at the alchemist, then rolled up his sleeve and looked for an accessible vein. Once one was identified, he injected himself with the virus and counted his heartbeats until he felt the effect. One. Two. Three. Fo-- He dully heard the syringe hit the floor, and, to his surprise, felt the floor under him, as well. It felt as though his leg was being held over a fire. Perhaps his bone marrow had been replaced with caustic acid. Looking down, he noticed with some confusion that his trouser leg had been pushed up around his knee, and that there were strips of red, angry scratches, some of which were bleeding fairly badly, along the gray and peeling skin. His arms with scratched just as fiercely. When he moved to push himself shakily upright, he noticed that blood and skin were caked under his nails. Well, the mutation didn't like being attacked from the inside, now did it? Foster smiled grimly. That meant it was working. It was only after he had maneuvered back to a standing position and was reaching for a cloth that he remembered his irritating companion's presence. Too late, of course, since he had apparently lost consciousness and exposed the mutation already. The scientist glanced down at his leg. At the knee, it looked as though he needed to moisturize some dry skin. Below that, something was clearly very wrong. The skin was gray and peeling, scaled in an almost reptilian fashion, and tapering to a grotesquely thin ankle. He sighed, and bent carefully to untie and pull off his shoe. The foot that uncurled from within had only four toes, and they were long and jointed. Moving the leg sent a wave of dizzying pain up his spine, and he steadied himself a moment before turning to glare at his companion. He offered no explanation or remark. "Pass me that antiseptic." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Yesterday at 11:44am The display had so far surpassed Sinclaire's expectations that he barely acknowledged his disappointment at having failed to predict that the specimen would be entering Foster's body, a grand opportunity having been lost. Nothing the alchemist could possibly have done would have produced so dizzying an effect. Not a finger had been lifted as Foster collapsed, the bestial grunts and occasional shrieks serving only to increase Sinclaire's wicked delight. When at last the fit subsided, a curative philter already rested upon the boy's palm. "Antiseptic won't be fixing that, Sunshine. I would recommend a machete and a flask of strong scotch." Proffering the potion, one of several that Thames carried within his valise at all times in the event of catastrophic failure, he smiled serenely. That leg, he mused, taking in every detail, no wonder he's curmudgeonly! ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Yesterday at 2:40pm Foster simply looked at him, annoyed that he was still being flippant and suppressing a sudden, lurching urge for violence. "I'm afraid that's not an option. The antiseptic." He waved the potion away. As if there was even the slightest chance he'd accept anything from that idiot that he didn't absolutely have to. "Though I could use some strong scotch," he added, dryly. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Yesterday at 3:20pm "Scotch it is, monsieur," muttered Thames, downing the contents of the vial himself. Admittedly, nothing in him needed curing at the moment, but it produced a fine euphoria all the same. As the room's hues shifted to a predominately gold and blue palette Sinclaire endeavored to ignore the multitude of well-endowed imps materializing around Foster's heads, he made his way into the hall. The wallpaper was moving more than usual, pulsating madly. How odd, he pondered, that a lab would have wallpaper, much less wallpaper patterned to resemble meat. Around a corner sulked a great dripping beast, its fell tentacles sliding out of sight just as Thames made to salute it, as was custom. Above him, following as closely as ever, was a child. A queer, burnt thing dragging itself across the ceiling to stay perfectly above Thames. Mumbling unintelligibly, he shouldered his way into an adjacent office where he had noted the presence of a floor safe during his previous ransacking. Still very much under the influence of his philter, he glowered at the obstinate metal hatch. Scientists always keep scotch in their safes. It's a rule. To his dismay, the necessary formulas for subtly disengaging locks would not make themselves available. Descriptors wove in and out of strings of greater runes, none of which were remotely useful for the task at hand. Growing impatient, he haphazardly plucked a few particularly bright runes from the mass, arranged them without much attention, and unleashed them upon the safe. The effect was instantaneous, a fountain of sparks erupting at Sinclaire's foot, each mote of burning light eating through the floor upon landing, only to reemerge in the form of a creeping tendril of plant matter. He could not tell how much of this was in his head, made real by the potent effects of the potion, but it was clear that some aspect of the Form had achieved the desired effect. The hatch had been blown aside, swallowed by the ambitious flora in its relentless search for a suitable light source. Within the alcove Thames discovered a very small man, presumably illusory in nature, a stack of bank notes, a revolver, and, as expected, a sealed bottle of good scotch. Gathering the whole lot up in his valise and ignoring the protestations of the diminutive gentleman, he rushed back to Foster, careful to avoid the vines and the tentacled things. "Erutnevda ni pu dnoub lla, sevirra ti, knird rouy," declared Sinclaire, pausing to consider just what had gone wrong in his speech. "Alas, got the whole thing reversed... Your drink, it arrives, all bound up in adventure! There we go." Giving his skull a violent shaking, he placed the scotch on the counter and made his way to a corner where, clutching his temples, he ignobly slumped. ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Yesterday at 8:50pm By the time he returned, all signs of self-inflicted violence on the scientist had been cared for and covered. Foster eyed him critically, mentally thanking all the gods that may exist that he hadn't accepted the potion. Much to his surprise, what was placed in front of him actually looked like a decanter of scotch. Hesitantly, he uncapped it and sniffed carefully. God only knew what the moron would-- It smelled like scotch. He rinsed a beaker in the sink and poured a bit, then sipped at it. "Single malt," he observed, pleasantly startled. He rinsed a second beaker and poured 40ml of well-aged single malt scotch whiskey, amused by the glassware. Though his companion seemed to be in no state to be drinking, he set it on the counter closest to the unusual fellow, opinion softened by the sudden outburst of helpfulness, and also the quiet that had finally overtaken the obnoxious boy. And by the prospect of good scotch, Foster would admit. He sipped at the scotch as he filled several syringes with the dilution of the virus, mood significantly improved by its apparent effectiveness, the painkillers, which were finally kicking in, and presence of scotch. "If only we had ice," he lamented, in an almost conversational tone. "Come on, boy." The syringes were stashed in the medical bag alongside his bottles of painkiller. He slid the stolen files in alongside, and tucked the bottle of scotch carefully on top. With a soft whistle, he summoned his cat, who leapt down to twine around his ankles. "We've stolen their supplies, so we can't exactly stay to chat." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by Saint-Just on Yesterday at 10:50pm "No... no... alcohol reacts poorly with my philter... I... hm, not now Gregrvyjk... away, away..." Though Foster would never be aware of the poeril in which he had for some time been, Sinclaire felt a sense of genuine goodwill toward his fellow man as he drove away the fanged beast perched upon Foster's skull. "I shouldn't drink that again. Not unless there's... a reason..." The source of Sinclaire's instability, as our reader has been made aware, was the consumption of a concentrated healing philter directed alchemically to identify the most pressing ailment in a body and to promptly correct it. When one is not suffering from any clear physical malady, the philter is left to act at its own curious discretion, identifying what it believes to be an issue based on its admittedly vague parameters. In Sinclaire, the philter could not fail to perceive his distinctly unconventional brain as a sickness. It acts accordingly. "Maybe I will partake..." Thames murmured, cautiously imbibing the scotch in a swift gulp. The characteristic burn brought with it a purifying fire, sweeping away the remnants of the troublesome euphoria on its amber waves. The fanged thing evaporated as it scuttled toward the door, the child on the ceiling faded, and the pitiable hammering in his valise at last subsided. "No... no. Not doing that again. Ah science, cruel mistress, taxing your poor Thames so..." Rising to his feet with renewed vigor, Sinclaire nodded authoritatively at nothing in particular. "I suppose we should leave, yes. They'll be so very bothered if they know I've done this again." ---- Re: Cold and Confrontation Post by shahmat on Yesterday at 11:29pm "That isn't how you drink good scotch, boy. Didn't your father teach you anything?" When he flapped his skinny arms like that, the boy looked like an absurd heron about to lurch gracelessly into flight. "Again?" Foster grumbled, then huffed quietly. "Thames?" He clearly didn't expect a response, and hauled the irritating and addled fellow out by the elbow, with his cat in the lead. "Company-- the gift that keeps on giving," he murmured, but the complaint was automatic and not terribly mean spirited. ---- Category:Archives Category:Ghalea Category:Shah Mat Category:Saint-Just